Resurrection
by tlyxor1
Summary: The Triwizard Tournament has been revived at Hogwarts, but monsters lurk in the abyss, and not all is as it seems. meanwhile, Fenrir Greyback's death, and Sirius Black's exoneration, have unavoidable, far-reaching consequences. Werewolves, Death Eaters, and Voldemort, nothing will ever be the same. GoF AU. OOC. Sequel to 'Resolution'.
1. Chapter 1: The Islington House

**Resurrection**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Summary:** The Triwizard Tournament has been revived at Hogwarts, but monsters lurk in the abyss, and not all is as it seems. meanwhile, Fenrir Greyback's death, and Sirius Black's exoneration, have unavoidable, far-reaching consequences. Werewolves, Death Eaters, and Voldemort, nothing will ever be the same. GoF AU. OOC. Sequel to 'Resolution'.

 **Rating:** T for language, violence and character death.

 **Author:** tlyxor1.

 **Resurrection**

 **Chapter One: The Islington House**

 _June 24th, 1994_

Harry's departure from Hogwarts was bittersweet. He didn't dread it as he had in years passed, but for a long time, Hogwarts had been his refuge. It wasn't safe by any means, but it had been far better than the alternative - Privet Drive, the Dursleys, his life before magic - and thus, it had always hurt to leave it behind.

This summer, however, Harry James Potter had something to look forward to. He was Sirius Black's ward. He would live with the man and his Great Aunt Cassiopeia. Best of all, however, was the fact he would not be returning to Little Whinging. If he was lucky, he would never have to see them again.

"You've gotten better at poker," Neville Longbottom observed. He was a stocky, tawny haired boy with the beginnings of whiskers on his chin, with brown eyes and an easy smile. He'd come a long way from the chubby, timid boy who'd run off with the sorting hat, but he'd also become a remarkable friend.

"I've been practicing my Occlumency," Harry answered.

"It shows," Theo contributed, "You're not such an open book. How are your shields?"

Theo Nott was a Slytherin Harry had met the summer prior. He'd crossed paths with a werewolf by the name of Fenrir Greyback and Harry had intervened. In the months that had followed, the Nott scion had become a close, stalwart friend.

"It's difficult to say. I haven't tested them against Snape and Dumbledore, obviously, and I don't know any other legillimens. Even if I did, I probably wouldn't ask them to. Test my shields, I mean."

"I guess I don't blame you," Neville acknowledged, "The mind arts are rather personal. It's why most scions learn when they're young. Less secrets, more unconditional trust."

The conversation waned as Theo folded with a muttered oath. Then he checked the time, stood, stretched, and addressed them both. "I'm out. Next time, we play with gold."

"Not happening," Harry answered lightly. Theo and Neville laughed. "You off?"

Theo nodded. "I told Blaise I'd sit with him and the others for a while."

Despite Theo's association with Harry, Neville, and a Hufflepuff in their year, Susan Bones, he'd been able to maintain strong connections with his Slytherin peers. It helped that most students their age couldn't care less about politics, but it did mean a fair deal of time spent with Draco Malfoy.

Harry sympathised. These days, he tried to avoid the Slytherin seeker but sometimes, confrontations were unavoidable. Malfoy's resentment of Harry had festered and had eventually culminated in an honour duel five months previously, though that hadn't been the end of their schoolyard rivalry. There had been encounters since, Draco's quiet loathing and Harry's certainty that it would become far worse before it was over.

It was all rather dramatic, really. Malfoy was a familiar, almost predictable constant though, and Harry, despite himself, had never been able to walk away from trouble. Draco wasn't Voldemort, but the pair of them had always clashed, and Harry doubted that would ever change. They were too different, with different values, beliefs, and attitudes. They would probably never be able to bury the hatchet.

He opted not to dwell on it. They were on their way to London, he wouldn't have to see the boy for two months, and life was good.

In fact, it had probably never been better.

"Have fun," Neville acknowledged, a small grin on his face. "And if we don't see you, have a good summer."

"You both, as well." He left.

The rest of the train ride passed uneventfully. They received intermittent visits from their respective friends, but by the time they had reached London, Harry's back ached, he was tired, hungry and agitated. A lot of people were perturbed by the revelation that Lupin was a werewolf, and the thought grated. Lupin was a good man and an even better wizard. Harry hated that he was defined by a curse he'd acquired through no fault of his own. He'd learned, however, that prejudice ran rampant through every society and unfortunately, he couldn't change people's minds.

He could only attempt to enlighten them. It would take a long time, of course, but if Remus could one day hold his head high without shame and fear of recrimination, then who was he not to try?

Once in London, Harry found Sirius already awaiting his arrival. Platform 9 and 3/4 was crowded, but people offered the newest Lord Black a wide berth and thus, it was easy to seek him out. Whether the space was due to his status as a former inmate of Azkaban, or due to his noble title, Harry didn't know. He didn't care to find out, either.

"How was the trip?" Sirius enquired.

"It was alright," Harry answered. Around them, the platform began to empty, "Where are we going?"

"Not far," he replied, "We're apparating. Have you ever travelled side-along?"

""Only with Totsy."

"Better then nothing," Sirius acknowledged, "Brace yourself. It's not pleasant."

With Harry's trunk shrunken in his pocket, Sirius took hold of Harry's elbow and turned on his heel. Harry closed his eyes, braced for anything.

Even as he'd been prepared for the unexpected, the sensation that washed over him was entirely startling in it's unpleasantness. It felt as though his entire body had been squeezed through Petunia Durseley's vacuum cleaner, and when it was over, Harry was gasping for breath he'd not realised he'd lost.

"What the bloody hell was that?" He groused. "That was awful!"

"It's better when you're not the passenger," Sirius consoled, "I'm impressed though. Most people throw up the first time."

"That doesn't make me feel any better," Harry answered dully, cast his gaze around, and arched a skeptical eyebrow. "You live here?"

They were in a part of Greater London that had seen better days, in a dingy street littered with old beer bottles, fast food wrappers, and disconcertingly high piles of uncollected rubbish. It wasn't what he'd expected of the Ancient and Noble House of Black.

Then again, he wasn't too sure of what he'd expected. He'd learned that the Ancient and Noble House of Black had been notoriously 'dark' in the past. Given that the House of Potter had been traditionally 'grey' with 'light leanings, Redridge Hall and the Mayfair House hadn't offered him much of an indication, either. All the same, he was surprised not to find something a little - or a lot - more ostentatious.

"This is the Black family townhouse," Sirius explained. He gestured theatrically towards the house they stood in front of, "Number 12, Grimmauld Place. I grew up here."

The house was a tall, imposing structure, with stone walls and dimly lit windows. It seemed to have walked right out of Georgian era London, and it appeared as though the house hadn't been maintained since. In fact, it seemed borderline condemned.

"It's…" Harry floundered, and failed, to provide an apt description.

Sirius smiled wryly. "It's better on the inside. Shall we go in?"

He nodded. "After you."

True to Sirius' word, the house was far better on the inside. He wasn't sure what it had looked like previously, but the cream coloured walls were freshly painted and the light wood floors were newly polished.

"This is the front hallway, obviously," Sirius explained, and then proceeded to guide Harry through a tour around the house. Disregarding the basement, it was three storeys all together, and every magically expanded inch of it had been renovated. The structure remained the same, but the floors had been replaced, the walls stripped of their previous colour scheme, and much of the furniture newly purchased, as well.

The exceptions were the public areas, though Harry doubted he'd spend much time in them. They were distinctly more formal than Harry was at all comfortable with.

"And this is your room."

They'd come to a stop on the top floor of the house. He could see a stairway that led up to the attic, but otherwise, there was a small living area illuminated by firelight, and two doors on opposite ends of the small common room.

"The other one's mine."

Sirius opened the door to Harry's room, stepped back, and allowed Harry to take it in. Comparatively speaking, it was larger than Dudley's, but much of the space was occupied with a full sized sleigh bed covered by a burgundy comforter. The walls were a nondescript cream, the carpet beneath his feet a soft brown. It was, essentially, gender neutral, and Harry was mildly surprised.

"Cassiopeia and I weren't sure what you'd like," Sirius explained, "And we didn't want to assume. You're welcome to decorate it as you please."

"I like it," Harry assured, "Thank you."

He didn't want to admit that he'd never had a room of his own before. It was somewhat mortifying, actually, and it would also be something awkward to explain. In any case, Privet Drive was part of his past, and it wasn't important. Not anymore.

"This is your home," Sirius answered, "You'll inherit it one day."

"Right," he acknowledged, "That's not a frightening prospect. At all."

"Don't worry," Sirius assured, "I don't plan to kick the bucket any time soon. I've got a lot of living left to do."

Harry tried to find comfort in his godfather's words, though he wasn't particularly successful. He knew, perhaps better than most his age, that life was fragile. It could be snuffed out in the blink of an eye, more so in the magical world, and nothing was ever certain.

"I'll hold you to that, Padfoot. I still have no idea how to manage a family estate."

"That's alright. Cassiopeia and I will teach you everything you need to know. All of that can wait until tomorrow, however. In the mean time, I'll let you get settled in."

"Can I summon Totsy, or…?"

Sirius nodded. "She's welcome here. Speaking of elves though, my mother's elf, Kreacher, is lurking around here somewhere. He's off his rocker, so just a head's up."

"Err… I'll keep that in mind, I suppose."

"That's all, I think. Um, dinner will be ready in about an hour, so just make your way into the kitchen when you're hungry."

Sirius left, Harry stepped into his room, and produced his trunk from his pocket. Totsy appeared without prompting, resized it, an began to magic his things into their appropriate places. The trunk seemed to shake itself as she did, and Harry made a mental note not to shrink it again. It didn't seem to appreciate the treatment.

"How is Master Henry being doing?"

"I'm alright, Totsy," Harry answered, "How are you?"

Totsy offered him a grin. "Totsy is being well, Master Henry."

As she spoke, she produced the bag of gold from the summer prior. It was a result of the bounty on Fenrir Greyback's head, and Harry still hadn't gotten around to depositing it in his vault. He supposed it would do better in circulation - boosting the economy, and all that - but he honestly had no idea what he would spend it on.

Perhaps Sirius would have some suggestions.

"What will Totsy be doing with this, Master Henry?"

"Maybe keep it in a safe place for now," Harry answered, "In Redridge Hall, I think."

The manor was on lockdown, which essentially meant no unrelated guests. He could trust that the gold would remain safe there. Although he wasn't particularly concerned about his fortune in Gringott's, he was also uncomfortably familiar with the excessive number of goblin rebellions throughout history.

Perhaps, then, it would be wise to deposit some of his gold elsewhere.

The thought bore further consideration. At this point in time, however, Harry was unprepared to make such decisions.

Totsy nodded her acquiescence. "Totsy is being putting it in the catacombs. It is being safe there."

Before he could ask what the catacombs were, Totsy popped out of sight. Meanwhile, Harry himself shuffled into his bedroom's attached bathroom, certain his enquiry could wait a while. He took advantage of the facilities provided, and afterwards, he dressed in the comfortable clothes Totsy had left out for his use. Then he made his way downstairs, into the basement kitchen, and to the dinner awaiting him there.

Sirius was already seated at the dining table, a glass of wine at his elbow. A stack of paperwork was spread out in front of him, but upon Harry's entry, he glanced up and smiled. He was a far cry from the man who'd escaped Azkaban, and briefly, Harry marvelled over the capabilities of magic. He didn't think muggle means could have ever returned Sirius to full health.

"You settle in alright, Harry?"

He nodded. "I did. Thanks, again."

"No problem," he acknowledged, "Take a seat. Cassiopeia will be joining us shortly."

As Harry settled himself in the seat to Sirius' right, he queried, "What are you working on?"

"The finances for the Black Estate," Sirius answered. He explained that after the death of Arcturus Black in 1991, the accounts hadn't been properly managed. The goblin responsible for the misconduct had been 'taken care of'', but it left Sirius - and his new account manager - with an impressive mess to clean up.

"Sounds exhausting."

"More tedious than anything." Sirius banished the paperwork to his study. "Better than politics, at least."

"I'll take your word for it," Harry acknowledged. Overhead, the doorbell sounded. "Is that Great Aunt Cassiopeia?"

Sirius nodded, excused himself to answer the door, and returned shortly thereafter. Cassiopeia followed him into the room, Harry rose to greet her, and the woman studied him critically.

"You've grown," she observed, "You'll need some new clothes. A whole new wardrobe, I think. Sirius?"

"In time, Aunt," he answered, "There are other things that take priority, don't you think? Besides, he's still growing. Might as well wait until the end of August."

They settled down to eat dinner, and Harry was unsurprised to find it exceedingly awkward. He'd gotten to know Sirius and Cassiopeia through a consistent exchange of letters throughout the spring and summer terms, but in all actuality, he'd spent very little time with them. The discomfort was inevitable, but they'd all made an effort.

It was more than the Dursleys had ever done. Disregarding that, it would eventually get better. They simply needed time.

"I've got word on the inquest," Cassiopeia informed them. Harry raised his head, unabashedly curious. It was he and his friends' complaints to their respective guardians that had been the catalyst for the DMLE's investigation, after all. He'd not paid much attention to the goings on beyond the various interviews he'd given with aurors Savage and Robards, though he _was_ interested to hear about the results. "Bones has Dumbledore on probation. He and the Hogwarts Board of Governors need to get their act together, or risk criminal charges. It should be in the 'Prophet' in the next few days."

"On what grounds?" Sirius queried. He seemed unsurprised, though Harry wished he could say the same for himself. He'd not expected that outcome. Actually, he'd not expected much of an outcome at all. He'd simply wanted their - unwarranted - punishments revoked.

"Child endangerment, neglect, harassment with regards to Snape, among other things. I didn't learn much else, though I do know the DMLE, in conjunction with the Department of Wizarding Education, will be keeping a sharp eye on the school." She addressed Harry, "Your next term should be interesting, to say the least."

Harry's smile was wry. "It always is, Aunt Cassiopeia."

"I don't doubt that," Cassiopeia acknowledged, "Though it really oughtn't be. Hogwarts is a school, after all, not some kind of demented adventure park. It's absurd what's gone on under Dumbledore's authority, honestly."

She looked set to continue, but Sirius cut her off with a tactless change of subject. Harry was silently grateful. He wasn't inclined to be witness - or victim - of his great aunt's temper, or Sirius' for that matter. He'd had enough of that at Privet Drive, thank you very much.

While the adults conversed, Harry finished his meal, drank his water, and listened absently. Dinner was cleared away quickly, however, replaced with a chocolate mousse that Harry ate with enthusiasm, a smile on his face.

He could, without regrets, get used to life far from Privet Drive.

 **Author's Note:** Been sitting on this one for a while, trying to decide whether or not I should go into details regarding the inquest, or just the results, but I eventually just decided to write the latter. Other than that, I don't think I'll ever get around to finishing the revision of 'Resolution', but who knows? Hope you enjoyed. Leave a review. -t.


	2. Chapter 2: The Expectations of Heirs

**Resurrection**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Chapter Two: The Expectations of Heirs**

 _June 25th, 1994_

It was difficult to get to sleep. Harry was in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar house, surrounded by unfamiliar people and unfamiliar sounds. Moreover, he couldn't stop thinking about the consequences of he and his friends' actions from the school term just passed.

What else had they unwittingly impacted?

All of that said, rest was hard to find. He managed, however, and in the morning, he was awoken by Totsy.

"Breakfast is being ready, Master," she informed him. Harry, fuzzily, stared back, but as his mental faculties kickstarted themselves, he began to move. Pyjamas were switched out for jeans and a t-shirt, socks and trainers were donned, and his hair was haphazardly combed. He still appeared as though he'd just rolled out of bed, but at least he wouldn't be what was, traditionally, considered indecent.

As Harry entered the kitchen, he was unsurprised to find Sirius and Cassiopeia already there. He wasn't expecting Remus Lupin, however, and therefore, the sight of him took Harry off guard.

"Professor," he greeted, and supposed he shouldn't have been surprised. Black and Lupin were friends, after all.

"Harry," Lupin greeted fondly, "How are you? And I'm no longer your teacher. Remus - or Lupin - will do. Or Moony, if you prefer."

"Right," Harry acknowledged, "Sorry. I'm well. How are you?"

He settled in his seat as he asked, and the house elf, Kreacher, served Harry his breakfast. Poached egg, toast, a bowl of sliced fruit, muesli, and yoghurt. A couple of rashers of bacon, a blueberry muffin, and a tall glass of apple juice.

He wondered if he could eat it all.

"Quite well," Lupin answered, "I'll be out of touch for a time, so I thought I'd come visit before I left. Sirius was gracious enough to invite me to breakfast."

"Where are you going?"

"I'll be visiting a few of the werewolf packs. There have been some internal conflicts since Greyback's death. I've been asked to make sure it doesn't spill into the wizarding communities."

To Harry's left, Sirius muttered something disparaging about the Ministry of Magic, though Harry couldn't quite make out the words. Across from him, however, Cassiopeia _had_ heard, and she swatted him on the arm for his trouble.

"Are werewolves not witches and wizards, too?" Harry asked, an ironic twist to his expression.

"A fair number have been taught to use their magic, yes. An even greater number, however, have remained untrained for much of their lives."

Harry frowned. "Isn't that dangerous?"

In his research regarding accidental magic, he'd learned that if a witch or wizard's magic remained untrained, it could eventually attack its host, like a cancer. It was a worst case scenario, though there were other side effects, too. Accidental magic was the least of them.

"Of course it is," Sirius confirmed, "But Merlin forbid we give werewolves wands. Who bloody knows what they'd do to us poor, unsuspecting wizards."

The sarcasm was obvious, and Sirius' opinion regarding the matter more so. Cassiopeia, however, remained notably silent. Harry supposed her opinion contrasted from her nephews', and the thought made him uncomfortable.

What other ideals of his did she not agree with? Or Sirius, for that matter? Moreover, what did that meanfor him? Did it mean anything?

"Is it bad?" Harry asked, "The conflicts, I mean."

He'd not considered the repercussions of Greyback's death. It hadn't even occurred to him that there _would_ be consequences. As with their action that had resulted in the Hogwarts inquest, he thought that was rather shortsighted of him. He wondered, idly, if Theo had realised what Harry himself hadn't, and made a mental note to ask his friend.

"Power struggles between alphas, mostly." Remus answered. "Nothing to worry about, really."

"Right," Harry muttered, unconvinced. He fell silent then, and the adults picked up their conversation from before Harry's arrival. He listened absently, content to instead eat his breakfast. He'd discovered, early on in life, that he could learn a lot from simply observing his surroundings. That particular skill had saved him from a lot of hurt on Privet Drive, and a lot of Potions accidents since.

Despite himself, Harry was drawn into the conversation when the topic turned to Harry's summer schedule. Lupin was interested to find out what Harry would be learning, Harry was too, and neither Sirius nor Cassiopeia were inclined to keep them hanging.

"Before breakfast, we've scheduled some training time," Sirius began, "To keep you sharp, harry. The Blacks and Potters have enemies, and that's not taking into consideration the danger that Voldemort and the Death Eaters pose to your wellbeing. It's great you've started duelling and those lessons with the NOtt boy, but there will always be room for improvement, you understand?"

"Yes," Harry confirmed, "I get that. What else?"

"After breakfast, you'll have lessons with myself or Sirius from eight to twelve," Cassiopeia took up the thread, "They'll be an hour each, for Estate Management, Legal Studies, Government, and Rhetoric."

"After lunch, your lessons will alternate. Etiquette one day, dancing the next, Deportment the one after that. They'll last a few hours, at least. Your evenings and weekends are free, however, to do as you please. Within reason, of course."

"Sounds busy," Remus observed.

"But necessary," Sirius parried, "WOuldn't have to be if Dumbledore did his fucking job."

Remus didn't contest Sirius' words. Instead, he nodded his concession to his friend's point.

harry wondered what had shattered Lupin's rose tinted lenses, but he didn't ask. Dumbledore had made many mistakes in recent years, and it wasn't Harry's business besides.

The curiosity, however, lingered.

"You're welcome to use magic here," Cassiopeia informed him, and Harry smiled at the thought. It would be a novel experience. "The wards around this place ensure magic can't be traced while you are inside. There is also a backyard available to you, though it is quite small."

"Pitifully small," Sirius contributed glibly, "There's also a greenhouse on the roof, if you feel inclined to try your hand at gardening. This house's primary function acts as a place to live in during the stock season, now that dear old Walburga's kicked it. In any case, most everything worthwhile is in the Black Manor, in the Lake country."

"Stock season?" Harry echoed.

Cassiopeia pursed her lips, unimpressed. "Sirius' term for the social season."

"Where the social elite flock to London to sell off their sons and daughters to the highest bidders," Sirius contributed bitterly. There was an old pain in his expression, though Harry couldn't begin to fathom the cause. Lupin could, it seemed, because he clapped a sympathetic hand to Sirius' shoulder, and mumbled something too low for Harry to hear.

"You'll be old enough to start attending soon," Cassiopeia informed him. Harry blanched at the thought. "You'll need a wife, of course - preferably sooner rather than later, given the times - to carry on the family names."

"Merlin's sake, woman, he's not even 14," Sirius groused.

"He's going to be the head of two Ancient and Noble Houses," Cassiopeia parried, "That is, of course, unless you feel inclined to grace the world with your unfortunate progeny. Disregarding that, we've all heard the whispers. It only makes sense."

"Whispers?" Harry parroted.

"Voldemort," Sirius answered mildly, "Old mate's not nearly as dead as any of us would like. I'm sure you already know that though."

Harry grimaced, and nodded his confirmation.

"Precisely," Cassiopeia acknowledged, "Which is why it would be prudent to provide heirs as soon as possible - just in case. Merlin knows that good for nothing bastard has wiped out enough wizarding families. It's disgraceful, honestly."

"I'm not nearly drunk enough for this conversation," Sirius decided. Remus offered the man a sympathetic smile, though didn't contribute to the discussion himself. Harry, personally, wished he hadn't perpetuated the subject at all, contemplated his leftover breakfast, and picked at the bacon he'd not yet eaten.

"Don't pick at your food, Henry. It's not a toy to be played with," Cassiopeia chided. Harry dropped the bacon, refrained from rolling his eyes with monumental effort, and instead nodded his acquiescence. It seemed that, no matter what, he couldn't win.

"When do we start the lessons, then?"

"Today, of course. As soon as you've finished your breakfast. Your training will start tomorrow."

Harry nodded his concession, smart enough not to protest. "As you wish, Aunt."

Once he'd finished his meal and cleaned up for the day, and Remus had left with their best wishes behind him, Harry met Sirius in the townhouse's (relatively) small library. He carried the ledger from Gringott's with him, Sirius accepted it carefully, and as Harry seated himself across from his godfather, the Potter regent - as appointed upon Harry's guardianship transfer - began to flick through the self-updating text.

"This is a list of all your assets," Sirius observed, "Do you not get account statements?"

"I didn't realise I was supposed to."

"I'll look into that," Sirius determined, "Don't worry about it for now. Instead, I'll start teaching you how to manage your accounts. There's a lot you need to take into consideration - assets, tenants, bills, interest, taxes; it goes on. Let's get started."

Harry nodded, produced his Estate Management journal and a self-inking quill from his bag, and opened the former on the desk in front of him. Sirius withdrew a Gringott's account statement for the Black Estate, and then proceeded with the lesson.

By the end of it, Harry was fairly certain he was still as lost as he was when he'd started, but when he admitted that, Sirius was unsurprised.

"Give it time. You'll learn. Now, you've got a lesson with Cassiopeia, and I've got a meeting with Lady Regent Bones."

"Is everything alright?"

"The Wizengamot is giving me ulcers, so nothing new. Just need to make some plans for the next session, is all. Should be back before your rhetoric lesson."

"You'll be teaching that, then?"

"Actually, no," Sirius admitted, a sheepish grin on his face, "I've got all the tact of a rampaging hippogriff, so we'll _both_ be learning from one of the portraits. My grandfather, Arcturus Black II, was a master at wordplay. I'm fairly certain even his portrait could talk circles around me."

"Right," Harry acknowledged, "I guess I'll see you then."

Sirius left the study, and Harry produced his Legal Studies journal from his bag. As with its Estate Management counterpart, it had remained untouched since Harry had quit three of his four Saturday classes, but as he awaited his Great Aunt, he briefly skimmed through the notes, grimaced at the inherent wizarding superiority in every law, in every section, sub-section, and clause, and bitterly wondered how the Wizengamot could sleep at night.

He was brought from his thoughts by Cassiopeia's arrival. She settled in the seat Sirius had vacated, banished the books and papers Sirius had used, and produced a series of shrunken tomes from a pocket in her robes. Then, without ado, she began the lesson.

Cassiopeia and Sirius' ways of teaching were remarkably different. He was casual, and he tried to make Estate Management sound interesting. In contrast, the great aunt they shared was clipped and factual. She was, however, open to discussion.

Harry didn't realise it, but she'd carefully guided him through a debate, certain to avoid igniting his temper, and also certain to make sure he'd provided justifications for his every opinion.

By the end of that hour, Harry was mentally drained, and his great aunt was quietly pleased. The thought made something warm bloom in his chest, and it took Harry a moment to realise it was pride - in himself.

"Well done," Cassiopeia commended, "You should get used to arguing like that. A poor temper won't get you anywhere except, perhaps, getting booted out of a session of the Wizengamot."

"I'll work on that, Aunt," Harry acknowledged dryly.

"I know you will," she answered, "Each of our Legal Studies lessons will involve a debate. I'll also give you some homework, mostly to read up on the next day's law in advance. Never mind that, however. For now, I'm going to explain the purpose of the Ministry of Magic's DMLE. With regards to management of our community, it is perhaps the most important department in Britain's Ministry of Magic."

Harry nodded wordlessly, produced yet another journal from his bag, and settled in to listen. It would be an exceedingly long summer.

 **Author's Note:** Apparently Alan Rickman has died. This makes me sad. Can anyone confirm this? As much as I dislike Snape, Rickman portrayed him phenomenally. If he has passed away, I hope he rests in peace. The same for David Bowie, as well.

Thanks for all your support. You've blown me away. Until next time, -t.


	3. Chapter 3: The Training Room

**Resurrection**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Chapter Three: The Training Room**

 _June 26th, 1994_

Early the following morning, Harry meandered his way into the basement kitchen, uncertain of what he ought to expect. He'd dressed in a pair of training shorts, a plain t-shirt and a set of mud stained sneakers, and he sighed a slight breath of relief upon sight of Sirius' tracksuit pants and polo.

At least he'd dressed appropriately.

"Morning," Sirius greeted, "Are you ready to start training?"

"I suppose so."

"Yes, or no, Henry," Cassiopeia chastised, "You should never present as anything less than absolutely certain of yourself. It leaves a poor impression."

At the dining table, Sirius unabashedly rolled his eyes, rose to his feet, and led the way to the far end of the basement kitchen. There, a door was tucked into a shadowed alcove, behind which was a newly polished, and brightly lit, stairwell.

"Aunt Cassiopeia and I had this built when we were renovating the rest of the house," Sirius explained, "It's a training room, for lack of a more apt term. Because it's new, it's also completely unknown by anyone else beyond the three of us. Given what we all know about Voldemort, we also installed an escape route out of the house. Keep that under your hat, yeah?"

"Of course," Harry assured, "Will you show me around?"

Expecting something like a home gym, maybe a small duelling chamber, Harry was surprised to find a room the length and width of the house itself. Artificial skylights illuminated the space with natural sunlight, and although Harry was intrigued by how that particular magic worked, he was quickly distracted by the features Sirius boasted. Beyond the secret passageway, that is.

As Sirius explained, the room was split into four parts, and each quadrant had their own purpose. The first was a magically warded duelling square. Inside it, it was anything goes, the quarter guarded to the teeth with standard protective and containment wards that had been set, enhanced, and strengthened by Black family magic.

A lot of the explanation went over Harry's head, but as Sirius spoke, Harry received the impression that the magic was an accomplishment in and of itself.

"He doesn't talk about it, but Sirius earned his Ancient Runes mastery when he was 18," Aunt Cassiopeia boasted. She was openly proud, and it was uncharacteristic of her. "He set a record; youngest Ancient Runes Master in the world. It's unheard of to set and power wards without a wardstone. I told him he should publish it, but Sirius wouldn't hear any of that."

"it could give our enemies an advantage," Sirius answered, long-suffering. Harry was amused to see his godfather's cheeks were mildly red. He, apparently, was unaccustomed to the praise. "I've told you this, Aunt."

She waved him off, nonchalant in turn. Harry himself chuckled, though he was no less impressed. Ancient Runes was a fascinating subject, and Harry had an undeniable talent for it, but he couldn't see himself acquiring a mastery by the time he finished Hogwarts. It seemed unfathomable, in all actuality, though it wasn't unheard of.

"Psh, you just can't be bothered writing the paper."

Sirius nodded his concession, a wry grin on his face. "There's that, too. Anyway, this next part is the gym, obviously."

It looked like the average (non-magical) gym, with all of the same equipment, but with wood and metal in place of plastic and rubber, and authentic leather in place of the synthetic materials rampant in the muggle world. There were no power chords or buttons, and these odd glass platforms in place of digital monitors, and it was fairly safe to assume that everything ran on magic.

Harry himself was just surprised that witches and wizards exercised at all.

"How do they work?" He queried.

"Touch the handles," Sirius explained, "They'll read your magic, and they'll go from there. This is all auror level equipment, and it's something of a lengthy explanation, but they somehow know your limits, and will push you beyond them without being excessive. The enchantments are quite impressive, really."

Harry had learned about Enchanting in his introduction to Ancient Runes. It was an advanced field of magic, much like Curse Breaking and Warding, with foundations in Ancient Runes, Arithmency, and Charms. As Professor Babbling had described it, the field was overlooked and under appreciated, but as Harry considered the exercise equipment before him, he wondered why that was.

It seemed exceedingly useful, and moreover, the creative and innovative possibilities seemed endless.

"Next we have the target range, if you will."

The target range was marked off on the floor with a series of distance indicators. At the far end, a row of targets lined the wall. On the wall adjacent, a line of dummies stood like stuffed, unmoving sentinels.

"The targets are enchanted to monitor the power you distribute in your spells, and also your target accuracy. You can also use them for throwing knives, or archery, or - well - you get the picture."

"I don't know how to throw knives," Harry answered.

"Something you can learn," Cassiopeia opined, "We intend to give you every advantage against Voldemort. It's easy to see that he won't rest until you are dead, and that is simply unacceptable."

"Right," Sirius agreed, "But before that, this last space is for things like hand to hand combat, knife fighting, so on and so on."

It was an open space, more or less, with padded floors and walls. Benches lined the open perimeters, and as the tour was done, Harry was unabashedly impressed.

"This room's amazing."

"It's nothing compared to the house in Russia," Cassiopeia answered, flippant, "Now _that's_ a training facility to appreciate."

Next to Harry, Sirius shuddered.

"Merlin, that place was hell."

"What doesn't kill you, nephew," Cassiopeia answered, "For all that you endured, I firmly believe you came out of that summer better for it. You certainly gave the Death Eaters a hard time."

"Russia?"

"It's something of a family tradition," Sirius explained, "Every son of the Ancient and Noble House of Black travels there in the summer of their 16th year. While the daughters are preparing for the social season, the boys are having their arses handed to them over, and over, and over again. Worst summer of my life, I swear to Merlin. Until Azkaban, anyway."

"I beg to differ," Cassiopeia contradicted, "But we can discuss that later. Are you not down here for a reason?"

Sirius nodded his agreement, gestured towards the duelling square, and withdrew his wand as he approached. Harry followed suit.

"We're going to start out with a duel," Sirius informed Harry, "I'd like to see what you're capable of. Anything goes, and don't feel obliged to follow any duelling etiquette you've learned. I guarantee Voldemort or the Death Eaters won't."

And then, despite the nearly 12 years in Azkaban, Sirius proceeded to kick Harry's arse. Harry gave a decent fight, employing what he'd learned from Flitwick and Theo both, but his skills weren't much in comparison to Sirius' honed reflexes, the years of training, or the wartime experience.

It was rather disheartening.

"Cheer up," Sirius said, smiling, "You did better than we expected. Fact is, formal duelling is nothing like magical combat, and although the stances are useful, the rules aren't. They're good to know in case of tourneys and hour duels, but when it's a fight for your life, or for your family's, they're a handicap more than anything else. I was glad to see you disregard them."

"Your spell repertoire is also admirable," Cassiopeia contributed, "Though I find your hexes and curses lacking. I will rectify this."

The cycle was repeated with daggers on the padded floor. It was made even easier by Sirius' greater arm reach, weight, and upper body strength, but Cassiopeia seemed pleased by Harry's skills, and Harry tried to take pride in that fact.

Tried, of course, being the operative word.

"What's next?" Harry asked, body aching. The training daggers mightn't have been sharp, but Sirius hadn't been pulling his punches, so to speak, and he'd not thought to stretch before the first round of arse-kicking.

"We're going to test your accuracy," Sirius answered.

"And the strength of your spells," Cassiopeia contributed. She'd conjured a chair at the epicentre of the training room. While seated, she had produced quill and parchment (journal), and she seemed intent on scribbling down as many observations as possible.

"Alright," Harry acknowledged, "What do I have to do?"

"Start at the two metre line," Sirius instructed, "And cast your strongest disarming spell at one of the targets in front of you. It doesn't matter which one."

Harry acquiesced with a nod, but when it came to actually casting a spell, he hesitated. "How do I put more power into a spell?"

Sirius shrugged, and answered, "Will it."

As he did, Cassiopeia swatted Sirius on the shoulder, and chastised him for his poor display of manners. The man, in turn, grimaced at her, swatted her hands away from him, and grumbled about nagging old hags.

At the same time, Harry studied his godfather, dubious. Upon reflection, however, he decided it was explanation enough. Professors Flitwick and McGonagall, in those introductory classes during first year, had often reiterated the fact that magic - casting spells, specifically - was all about intent. It was only logical that the strength of one's spells abided by the same basic principle.

With that in mind, Harry cast the disarming spell directly at the target ahead of him, with as much strength he could muster, and watched, startled, as it was rattled by the force of his magic.

Behind him, Sirius whistled lowly as a '7' floated above the target.

"Is that good?" Harry questioned.

"It means you've got a lot of magic at your disposal," Sirius answered, "Your accuracy needs a lot of work though."

As the outer-most ring was lit up with the familiar blue of a disarming spell,, Harry couldn't refute his godfather's observation. Instead, he could only smile sheepishly. It's not as though Professor Lupin, or the spectacular failures before him, had been focused on their students' casting accuracy.

"In all fairness, it's not something taught at Hogwarts," Cassiopeia conceded, "But no matter, we will help you. That will be all for today, however. This session was mostly to determine what you are already capable of, and what you need to work on in the future. That said, how does breakfast sound?"

It sounded bloody brilliant, actually. Although he was accustomed to physical exercise, courtesy of Oliver Wood, Harry hadn't anticipated a work out with his (new) relatives watching. It was okay with his team, he supposed, because they'd shed blood, sweat, and on one memorable occasion, tears, together. They'd seen each other at their best and worst, and there was no going back from that.

With Sirius and Cassiopeia, however, both of whom had been raised with silver spoons in their mouths, the prospect just left Harry feeling uncomfortable and awkward. Maybe that was irrational of him, but knowing that didn't change the fact he was still unenthused about exercising in front of either of them.

"Sounds great," he acknowledged, "I'm starving."

"You and me both," Sirius answered, "Race you there."

The next thing Harry knew, an oversized canine had barrelled past him. Harry gaped, stared at his exasperated Great Aunt, and raced after Padfoot with a laugh. As he did, Harry promised himself - not for the first time - that he would become an animagus, too.

-!- -#-

Over breakfast, Harry received a reply from Theo, via Hedwig. He'd sent off a missive after lunch the day before, and it seemed his friend had not taken his time with a response.

After doting on Hedwig, Harry cracked the seal open, unfolded the letter, and perused it slowly.

It read simply that, yes, Theo had realised the possible ramifications of Fenrir Greyback's death, and even that of the inquest, but he'd determined that any possible aftermath was worth their actions regarding both matters.

It went on to read:

 _That's the difference between us, I suppose. I look at the big picture, consider every major decision from all angles. You don't. It's not a bad thing, per se - I imagine it makes you a lot less neurotic than I am - but it's something to consider for the future. There are worser things on the horizon, and I think you and I both know it…_

Theo then went on to enquire about how he was settling in with the Lord Black, to exasperatedly recount his reunion with his ageing grandfather, and to remind Harry, once again, that he despised his Uncle Terrance with all of the blazing fury of a thousand suns. Then he bade Harry a pleasant day, signed off with a simple 'Theodore NOtt', and that was that.

It left Harry with a fair bit to think about, and thus, he spent the rest of breakfast in a contemplative silence. He'd not come to any conclusions by the time he was done, but as he excused himself to freshen up, he doubted he'd have much time throughout the day to consider the letter further.

That thought, of course, had his mind on the busy day ahead of him. He groaned (inaudibly) at the thought.


	4. Chapter 4: The Visit to Redridge Hall

**Resurrection**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Chapter Four: The Visit to Redridge Hall**

 _July 5th, 1994_

A week and a half after his arrival at Grimmauld Place, and Harry had grown somewhat stir crazy. His first weekend there, Harry had spent his mornings enjoying what lie-in he could get, his afternoon spent on the summer homework he'd put off throughout the week. He had been somewhat eager to get them out of the way, but they were all research projects, and thus that plan had been foiled.

Instead, he had taken to spending his evenings in the small library that 12 Grimmauld Place had to offer, steadily chipping away at the research materials he had at his disposal. There were other things Harry would have preferred doing, of course, like flying, or learning more about his family, but he didn't really have the time to procrastinate.

That said, it was his second weekend away from school, and Harry was desperate to get out of the house. His Great Aunt Cassiopeia had disappeared that morning, headed to destinations unknown, and Harry hadn't seen Sirius since breakfast.

In fact, he rarely saw much of Sirius outside of their morning training sessions, breakfast, and the Estate Management lesson they always had afterwards. He understood, of course, that it was because Sirius was a busy man, but it was still rather disappointing.

Maybe Harry was asking for too much. Sirius had provided a home, lessons to guarantee that Harry wouldn't be left floundering when he reached his majority, and the opportunity to fully immerse himself into the world he'd been born into.

Harry had expected more though. He wasn't sure what, exactly, but he'd found Grimmauld Place lacking in _something_ , and a part of Harry hated himself for it.

After all, what more could he ask for?

"Totsy, I think I'm going to head over to Redridge Hall," Harry decided, "I think I'd like to visit with Taid."

"Would Master Henry like Totsy to inform Lord Black?"

"Will you drop me off there, first?"

Once Harry had gathered the books he intended to return to the Redridge Hall library, Totsy did so without protest, and they reappeared outside the front gates. The manor and grounds were still on lockdown, which essentially meant Harry was the only wizard with access, and only through the gates. The Potter Estate's house elves could come and go as they pleased, of course, but anyone else who tried would wind up in Godric's Hollow, dazed and confused.

Harry smiled. He'd missed Redridge Hall, the magic warm and welcoming. Grimmauld Place was nice, and Harry enjoyed living there, but sometimes, the magic in that house, that sometimes radiated from Sirius and Cassiopeia, was oppressive and foreboding in a way that Redridge Hall's magic was not. Harry attributed it to family magic, but Harry didn't know much about that particular topic, and his friends - Neville, Theo, and Susan - had inferred that it was something too personal to ask a non-relative about.

Maybe he'd be able to acquire some answers from Charlus Potter's portrait. Distant relations or not, Harry was somewhat wary of asking Sirius or Cassiopeia, mostly because the distinction between 'Potter' and 'Black' seemed like a crevasse that he couldn't - and shouldn't - cross. Hence, he had reserved his questions for the impressions of his forbearers, and Harry was hopeful that they wouldn't let him down.

With a curtsy, Totsy left when the gates were closed behind Harry, and the teenager slowly meandered his way up the tree-lined drive, content to take his time. He'd not explored much of the grounds the summer previous, though Harry decided that it was something of an oversight on his part. He could hear the sounds of birds in the trees, and the distant splash of water. Totsy had waxed poetic about the orchards and the flower gardens, about the stables and the inhabited forest on the edge of the grounds. About the lake, about everything that made Redridge Hall beautiful.

Harry wanted to see it all.

Before he could grow distracted by the prospect further, however, he'd reached the circular drive, and Noddy awaited him at the top of the front steps. He greeted Harry with a bow, and not for the first time, Harry decided the treatment was something he would never grow accustomed to. Harry didn't even _want_ to.

"How are you, Noddy?" "Is everything alright here?"

"I am well, Master Henry," Noddy answered, "And all is as it should be."

"That's great to hear," Harry acknowledged, "You'll come to me or Sirius if there is a problem, won't you?"

"I will," Noddy confirmed. He bowed again, and enquired, "Can I serve you anything, Master Henry?"

"I'm alright, thank you." With a sheepish smile, he added, "Would you show me the way to Charlus Potter's portrait, though?"

"Of course. It is right this way, Master Henry."

On their way to the familiar sitting room, Harry was heartened to be greeted so warmly by the other portraits throughout the manor. It seemed they'd flocked to see him, and as he passed, they'd shout out a greeting, or they would give him a wave, and Harry would return them in kind. As he did, he was bemused to find that most of the wizards shared his untameable hair, or his nose, or the arch of his eyebrows.

The witches were different - a little more difficult to pinpoint - but Harry saw himself in a few smiles, in the high cheekbones, and in the sable colour of his hair.

Even knowing these ancestors were long gone, the resemblance made him smile.

It was an extraordinary feeling to know he belonged somewhere.

"We are here, Master Henry," Noddy declared, and gestured towards a set of double doors before him. They were both closed, but upon Noddy's direction, one of the doors creaked open. "If you would like anything, simply call."

"I will," Henry assured, "Thanks, Noddy."

Tickled by the feeling of being a guest in his own house, Harry slipped into the sitting room, a small smile on his face.

The sitting room remained unchanged since the summer prior. It was, of course, carefully maintained by the house elves, but Harry, who felt he'd changed so much in ten months, had almost expected something different - new - to greet him.

There wasn't.

"Greetings, Henry," Charlus Potter's portrait acknowledged, a jovial smile on his face. He sat comfortably in the wing-backed armchair that occupied his portrait, and he, too, remained unchanged. "How have you been, lad?"

"Hello, Taid," Harry answered, settling in the chair before the hearth, "I'm well. It's been an eventful year. Would you like to hear it?"

"It would be my genuine pleasure," Charlus answered, still smiling, "You live in interesting times."

It wasn't the first time he'd heard that. Lady Augusta Longbottom had said the exact same thing over the winter holidays, and although Harry wasn't so sure he would agree, he wasn't about to contradict his grandfather's portrait.

Even knowing that the painting was only the impression of a man long gone, an amalgamation of oil paints, memories, and magic, it seemed almost disrespectful, and Harry had no desire to disappoint him. Or it, rather.

Harry opted not to dwell on that, however. He didn't like to think on the fact that he was the only Potter left. It often left him vaguely panicky, and he'd never been fond of being alone. Used to it, yes, after a childhood with the Dursleys, and fond of it in short intervals, but never any longer than that.

If Harry had his way, he would never be alone again.

After a few moment's thought, Harry recounted that years 'adventure' to an attentive Charlus.

"I'm glad Sirius is teaching you what you need to know," Charlus acknowledged afterwards, "You've a lot of enemies, Henry. You will spend your entire life opposing them, and not always on the battlefield."

"I'm realising that, I think," Harry acknowledged. His thoughts flickered to Draco Malfoy, whose hatred of Harry had not waned, and to Voldemort, who continued to lurk in the shadows, waiting. He wasn't dead, Harry was certain of it, and the teen was doubtful that he had seen the last of the Dark Lord yet. "I have a lot to learn."

"As does everybody else," Charlus answered sagely, "You are not alone in that, ŵyr."

The wisdom wasn't appreciated. Harry was leaps and bounds behind his peers, and as much as he learned, Harry had the feeling that he would never catch up.

His classmates made it look so easy - effortless, even - and most days, Harry struggled to remember that poor language wasn't acceptable for the future head of an Ancient and Noble House.

Not that it stopped Sirius, of course, but if Cassiopeia and Remus were to be believed, that wasn't anything knew. He'd apparently always been something of a rogue, to his mother's unending chagrin.

Maybe Sirius had the right of it, Harry mused, shrugging off social conventions, and carving out his own path, regardless of others' opinions of him.

Too bad Cassiopeia would likely tan his hide if he even thought about it in her presence.

"I'll try and remember that," he acknowledged wryly, cleared his throat, and changed the subject. "I actually have something to ask you."

"Oh?"

"Could you tell me about family magic? It was reference a lot in that history book you recommended, but I couldn't learn much about it. Apparently it's something no one ever really talks about; outside of family, anyway."

"Indeed it's not," Charlus confirmed, "I apologise for not educating you about it last August. I had hoped it wouldn't be an issue before this summer."

"It's not, really," Harry answered, "I was just curious about it."

"Let me sate that curiosity, then." The impression of Charlus wriggled back in his seat, crossed an ankle over his opposite knee,and his arms across his chest. Then he began to speak. "Family Magic is the element of a witch or wizard's magical core that is inherited through blood. It may be argued, of course, that magic itself is a hereditary subject, but 'magic' and 'family magic' are entirely separate, though no one is certain of _how_ , exactly, that is. Mostly because no one knows what, exactly, magic is - whether it is physical, metaphysical, spiritual, so on and so on. Suffice to say, it has been widely argued. I digress, however." Charlus paused thoughtfully. "It is rather difficult to explain."

Harry bit back a snarky reply, and resigned himself to yet another long day.

"To be specific, _our_ family's magic has only ever been wielded by a Potter. It is said to be a build up of inherited magic turned sentient, though there has never been any definitive evidence proving or disproving this theory. The Potter Family Magic takes the form of our totem, the Welsh Black - a dragon - though in the family grimoire, it is said that in earlier generations, it had taken the form of a thestral."

"A what?"

"A winged horse," Charlus explained patiently, "It is widely believed to be an omen of death, though in actuality, it is a breed of horse that can only be seen by those whom have seen someone die. They pull the carriages at Hogwarts, if you were interested."

Harry hadn't noticed. He and his friends had walked from the castle to Hogsmeade station. Thus, he'd not seen the carriages at the start of summer, and could neither confirm nor deny Charlus' words. He wasn't inclined to, in any case.

"Why did it change?"

"It is a matter of identity, I believe," Charlus answered, "I have theorised that the family magic takes form of the animal that we, as an ancient and noble house, identify with most. It has never been proven, however, because the only evidence I have is the family magic of our own house."

"What is it, though?"

"It is whatever you need it to be," Charlus answered, "A guardian, a shield, a sword. It will, however, only ever come to you when you are in need of it most. Otherwise, it can only be harnessed with family rituals you will not learn until you become the Head of House Potter."

The explanation left Harry more confused than he had been when he'd arrived, and thus, Harry left the sitting room with a puzzled frown on his face. He stopped, briefly, to drop some books off at Redridge Hall's library, and to collect some others, before he met Noddy in the front foyer.

"Did your visit go well, Master Henry?"

"I think I have more questions than I started with," Harry answered wryly.

"I pray that you are able to find answers to your questions, Master." He clicked his fingers, and as Totsy appeared beside him, Noddy bowed, and disappeared with a small 'crack' of displaced air.

Meanwhile, Harry let Totsy take his hand, and with another 'crack', they disappeared from Redridge Hall, to reappear in Harry's bedroom inside the Black family townhouse.

To Harry's surprise, Sirius was waiting for him there.

 **Author's Note:** I apologise for any formatting issues in this chapter. For some weird reason, half of this chapter (the document, I mean) has only allowed for an average of four words a line, and I have no idea how to fix it. It's been irritating, however.


	5. Chapter 5: The Tonks Family

**Resurrection**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Chapter Five: The Tonks Family**

 _July 5th - 6th, 1994_

"Sirius," Harry greeted, flatfooted by his godfather's presence. He'd generally avoided entering Harry's room without express permission - something about it being one's private domicile, though Harry, admittedly, hadn't paid much attention to the longwinded ramble. He had, however, picked up enough to realise that entering without permission just wasn't done.

Moreover, in the week and a half Harry had been there, Sirius hadn't actively sought him out. They'd crossed paths in the basement kitchen, and in the hallway, and there were the lessons, of course, but otherwise, there hadn't been any intentional encounters, and Harry had grown accustomed to that.

The change in the pattern was startling, though Harry couldn't particularly say one way or another how he felt about it.

Totsy fidgeted in place, uncomfortable, and Harry sent her on her way, fairly certain she neither needed nor wanted to be there. Harry wasn't sure what was about to happen, but given the breach in propriety, as it were, he figured it was important, and likely personal.

"Harry," Sirius acknowledged. He was settled in Harry's desk chair, and upon sight of the teen, a brief expression of relief had flickered across his face. "How was Redridge Hall?"

"It was… not as productive as I'd hoped. Am I in trouble?"

Sirius sighed, and shook his head, no. "You're not a prisoner here, Harry. I'd have appreciated it if you'd told me where you were going - instead of having Totsy do it, I mean - but I'm not going to keep you from leaving."

Harry frowned, puzzled, and queried, "Then why are you in my room?"

"I wanted to talk," Sirius explained, "Will you sit?"

With the impression that he didn't have much of a choice, Harry settled on the edge of his bed, dropped his messenger bag beside him, and waited for Sirius to speak once more. On her perch, Hedwig fluttered her wings, gave a low, quiet croon, and tucked her head down to sleep.

"I wanted to apologise," Sirius began, "I've not been around for you much since you arrived from school, and I doubt that's left the best of impressions. I'm sure this is all as new to you as it is to me, and I could have - _should_ have - tried harder. For that, I am truly sorry."

"That's alright, Sirius," Harry acknowledged, flatfooted once more, "I figured you just weren't used to much interaction with others."

Sirius laughed, though the sound was somewhat hollow. "You're only partially right. There's also the fact that you're the spitting image of James, and I had to give myself time to separate you, Harry, from his memory. It would have been terribly unfair for you if I proceeded with ridiculous expectations that you'd be precisely like him."

"It's not a problem, Sirius," Harry acknowledged, "And I suppose I can appreciate that."

In fact, Harry was glad that he'd be able to go forward from this encounter with the knowledge that Sirius harboured no preconceived notions of him. He'd spent the last three years surrounded by peers with expectations of the 'Boy Who Lived', with teachers who saw the mirror image of James Potter, or Lily Evans, or sometimes an odd amalgamation of both. It was nice to know he wouldn't inevitably wind up a disappointment.

"I'm glad," Sirius smiled, got to his feet, and clapped Harry on one of his shoulders. "I won't keep you, but tomorrow, we're heading out. There are some people I want you to meet, so be ready by eight. Dress muggle, smart casual."

Sirius left, and Harry, bemused, dropped back across his bed, yawned, and closed his eyes. He thought over all that the portrait of Charlus had said, and realised, belatedly, he'd not asked about the magic that sometimes radiated from Sirius and Cassiopeia. Perhaps they themselves could answer his questions?

Brought from his reverie as Hedwig alighted on his forearm, Harry greeted her fondly, stroked her breast feathers, and removed the scroll tied to her talon with twine. She'd evidently returned from her flight to Astor Hall, in Kent, and it seemed she'd made detours to Susan's and Theo's respective homes, too.

"You've been busy, haven't you, girl?"

Hedwig barked her confirmation, winged her way back to her perch, and settled down for an afternoon of sleep. Harry, meanwhile, gathered up his letters and a variety of other things, retreated from his room, and meandered his way into the library.

There was a moment where he genuinely considered delving into more research on the Transfiguration report Professor McGonagall had assigned them, but in the end, interest in what his friends had to say won out.

Neville's letter was rather short, though that wasn't much of a surprise. His friend wasn't one for many words.

He spoke, briefly, of his preparations for his holiday to Brazil, had observed that his grandmother, Lady Augusta Longbottom, had been rather distracted as of late, and closed with an enquiry as to Harry's summer, thus far.

Rather cordial, and significantly less familiar than either of them were in person, and Harry replied in kind with word that his lessons were simultaneously enlightening and exhausting, with a brief mention of his epiphany earlier in the holiday, and finally, with a genuine wish that Neville's holiday plans were everything his friend wished for. Then he signed it off with his name, sealed it with a stick of wax, and addressed it to his friend at Astor Hall.

Susan's letter was a lengthy, long-winded ramble about her holiday, with sporadic rants about their homework, the occasional enquiry as to Harry's wellbeing, and an almost bitter close that indicated her Aunt, DMLE Director Amelia Bones, was as busy as ever (and thus, unable to spend any time with Susan herself).

Harry stared at that last line for a time, and wondered how he ought to reply.

He opted to answer everything else first, and once that was done, he hesitated. Orphan he may be, and raised by his own aunt to boot, but with regards to Susan's present situation, he couldn't relate.

Petunia Dursley had despised Harry for all he'd represented. Amelia Bones, in contrast, loved her niece. She simply worked too many hours.

In the end, he decided just to be honest.

 _From what you've told me over the last year, your aunt was committed to her job long before you came into her care. I'm assuming she doesn't know how to step back from that. I doubt she loves you any less for it. I'm sorry, but I don't know what else to say._

He signed off, sealed the letter, and deposited it on top of Neville's. Then he picked up Theo's, read it quickly, and chuckled to himself. It was, primarily, a rant about England's abysmal chances in the upcoming Quidditch World Cup, and after Susan's, it was a cakewalk to write up a response.

Afterwards though, Harry was left with the Transfiguration assignment he didn't want to do, in a house that had no alternative pastimes to offer him.

-!- -#-

The restaurant Sirius led them to overlooked the Thames, a brightly lit, expensive establishment that blatantly catered to a wealthier clientele.

Among them, a dark haired woman introduced to Harry as Andromeda Tonks, her husband, Ted, and their daughter, Nymphadora.

Cassiopeia had explained that Andromeda had been disowned and disinherited due to her elopement. Not because Ted Tonks was a muggle-born, as most had assumed, but because in doing so, she'd broken a contract between the houses Black and Greengrass. It had been a breach to her own and her family's honour, and an insult to the House of Greengrass to boot. As such, it was a sleight Lord Arcturus Black had not been able to ignore.

Seated next to Harry, Aunt Cassiopeia primly sipped at her tea. She'd not approved of Sirius' breakfast plans, and had informed him as much on their way to the restaurant. Apparently, it would do none of them well to see Lord Black entertaining a recognised 'blood traitor'.

Harry didn't like the term, of course. It was an insult he associated with Draco Malfoy, the monumental arse, and he didn't care to hear it used by his family, either.

Apparently though, he'd misunderstood it's meaning.

According to Aunt Cassiopeia, a 'blood traitor' was someone who'd, as the term implied, betrayed their blood. In the case of Andromeda Tonks, she became one when she forsook her duty, her honour, and her family for the sake of a man not her contracted betrothed.

All of that said, Aunt Cassiopeia gave no indication of her disapproval, and instead made polite conversation with her (several times removed) niece. Tonks was in the last year of her training at London's auror academy, a metamorphmagus, and a skilled duelist, and Harry was exceedingly impressed by her.

He was fairly certain Aunt Cassiopeia was, too.

"We're teaching Harry to duel," Sirius informed her, "Maybe you'd like to come help out one day? Give these old bones a break."

Andromeda scoffed. "Old, he says."

"Almost 35," Sirius smile was wan, and it didn't take a genius to realise his thoughts were on the years he'd lost in Azkaban. "Hard to believe, isn't it?"

"You're practically geriatric," Andromeda deadpanned. She was a healer, running a private clinic in Manchester, and she seemed to understand Sirius in a way Harry didn't think he ever would. She was dry wit and unflappable grace, and he wondered what could motivate someone to leave all they'd ever known behind.

"What do you think of duelling, then?" Tonks queried, thus wrenching Harry from his reverie.

"I enjoy it," he replied, and actually meant it. He'd initially viewed the lessons as a necessity, but as his skills improved, he'd begun to actually appreciate them. They acted as a decent stress relief, and moreover, he relished the opportunity to push himself - his body, his skills - to the limits of what he was capable of, and then some.

"Yeah?" Tonks smile was knowing, "I suppose I ought to stop by one day, see what you're capable of. Can't go disappointing the House of Black now, can you?"

"Perish the thought," Aunt Cassiopeia deadpanned. She cast a telling glance in Andromeda's direction, her lips thinned, and Harry resisted the urge to fidget, uncomfortable in the awkward silence that followed.

"Right," Tonks cleared her throat, "I'm going to the loo. Don't mind me.

"Was that necessary, Aunt?" Sirius asked, mildly exasperated. At the same time, Mr Tonks excused himself to have a smoke on the balcony, and Harry was tempted to join him.

Sirius' hand on his shoulder kept him in place.

"It's fine, Sirius," Andromeda insisted. Her expression was tired, but her smile was gentle. "I wasn't expecting open arms."

"You'd think people would get over it," Sirius grunted, "It's been 20 years."

"And yet, Delia Greengrass still brings it up," Cassiopeia answered, "It's a shame we can't easily escape."

"We're wizards. We have long lives, and longer memories," Andromeda said, "Lord Arcturus told me that once."

"He was right, of course," Cassiopeia acknowledged, "That said, I was out of line. I apologise."

"As do I," Andromeda answered, "For what it's worth, at least. I doubt there's any making up for what I did."

"There isn't," Cassiopeia agreed.

"There's only moving forward," Sirius contributed, "And we can all start by having a nice, peaceful breakfast."

There was a pause as they each digested Sirius' words, before, simultaneously, all three adults started to laugh. As they did, Harry sipped at his water, with the unfailing impression that he was excluded from an inside joke they were all aware of.

He didn't like the feeling.

 **Author's Note:** Apologies for the wait. I was stuck halfway through the chapter, and by the time I worked out what I wanted to write, it was hard to get back into the flow of this story. Also, Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire has taken over my life. Anyway, hope you enjoyed. Until next time, -t.


	6. Chapter 6: The Colony

**Resurrection**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Chapter Six: The Colony**

 _July 10th, 1994_

There were few people Remus Lupin despised as he did Fenrir Greyback. Peter Pettigrew had destroyed his pack in one fell swoop, Delores Umbridge had made his (and others like him) life exceedingly difficult over the years, and as for Voldemort?

Well, the less said about that monster, the better, as far as Remus was concerned.

That said, Remus couldn't deny that, of all the notable (and infamous) things Fenrir Greyback had done, organising Britain's werewolf packs had to be the most impressive. Before him, packs had been small, clustered groups of individuals warring over diminishing territory and available food, but under Greyback's banner, they'd become a (relatively) civilised colony in the magically unplottable forests of Scotland.

Remus would even - albeit reluctantly - admit that it had been a beneficial change, for all involved.

That said, Remus hadn't been to the colony often. His unabashed, unadulterated loathing of Greyback had caused a great deal of contention between a number of werewolf packs within the community, and thus, he had opted to make himself scarce. He'd been a lone wolf, after all, and alpha or no, Remus wouldn't have been able to survive against multiple packs of violent, bloodthirsty werewolves.

That said, he _had_ spent 12 months within the colonies, way back in 1982. His pack had been torn asunder, the frayed bonds had torn at his mind and soul, and recovery from it had been almost impossible.

'Almost' being the operative word.

The healer who'd helped him knit his life, his mind and soul, back together was a witch turned werewolf who called the colony home. As her patient, he'd gotten to know the colony's ways and it's people, their habits, values and ideals.

That was why, as he finally reached the transient village, he hesitated, unable to shake the feeling that he was about to walk (willingly) to his own demise.

How many werewolves were insulted by his involvement in Greyback's death? How many resented him for his involvement with wizards? How many wanted his head?

Remus didn't want to find out.

He'd never planned on returning to the colony, but he owed Amos Diggory a favour, and he'd never been one to renege on his word.

He didn't have to like it, of course.

"if it isn't the prodigal son. Back to kill more werewolves, are you?"

"I've never killed a werewolf in my life, actually," Remus parried blandly, glanced towards the speaker, and feigned a smile. "Lawrence Woodridge, you're looking old."

"Might as well have, Lupin," Woodridge answered bitterly, "And I could say the same for you. What is it, the wand wavers not treating you nice?"

"You know they don't," Remus answered mildly.

"And yet, you insist on pretending to be one of them, anyway."

"At least out there, I can go to sleep without risk of a knife in my back."

"You brought it on yourself, Lupin."

"Did I, really?" He wondered mildly. "I don't remember Greyback giving me the choice."

"That's not what I meant, and you know it."

"Semantics, Lawrence. Greyback wouldn't have ever had to worry about me if he'd kept his bloody teeth to himself." Remus stepped back, inhaled deeply, and offered the other man a chagrined smile. "I apologise. I'm afraid my feelings for Fenrir have not changed."

"No," Lawrence agreed, tone sombre, "They haven't, have they?"

"I doubt they ever will," Remus confirmed, glanced around him, and admitted, "It took me a while to find the new settlement. How's it working out?"

Lawrence shrugged flippantly, and began to walk towards the settlement in question. "Had better, had worse."

Remus fell into step beside the other werewolf, nervous despite himself. He'd always been something of an outsider in wizard and werewolf communities alike, and although he was skeptical that his place would ever change, a part of him also longed to belong somewhere, without doubt or question.

Perhaps that was why he followed Lawrence, no longer hesitant.

"He loved you, you know," Lawrence began.

"Spare me the guilt trip, Lawrence," Remus grunted.

"You were his favourite. He called you his son."

"He ruined my life!"

They fell into a brooding silence, Remus with an angry glare on his face, Lawrence with a sullen scowl.

The rest of the trek passed, and they reached the small tent city as the sun crept over the horizon. It had grown in the decade since his last sojourn therein, though that was no particular surprise.

Greyback had never stopped biting, after all. It was just a wonder that not more of his victims despised Fenrir for all he'd done.

Of course, there were many that _did_ loathe him, unabashedly, but they - like Remus - generally avoided the colony and, particularly, those devoted to the cause.

Surprisingly, there were men and women already up and about in the dawn light, children underfoot and sullen teenagers reluctant to crawl out of bed. It was relatively quiet though, conversations exchanged in Gaelic undertones Remus barely understood, but no less involved for it.

Heightened senses, after all, had their uses.

"We're here," Lawrence said, stopped before a tent in the centre of camp. "Astrid's in charge, though there's no telling how long that'll last. Head inside - she'll be up."

"Astrid?" Remus echoed, surprised. He remembered her from 1982, of course - she was difficult to forget - but back then, she'd been 19, a beta, and as bitter about her life as Remus himself. She was a squib, disowned and disinherited long before Fenrir had turned her, but she'd never embraced her lycanthropy as others in her shoes had done before, and after, her.

In any case, he'd never viewed her as alpha material, but then, he supposed people changed. It had been 12 years.

"Yes," Lawrence confirmed, a furrow between his eyebrows. Remus couldn't decipher his expression. "It's… different. Not a lot of people are fond of her authority."

"Right," Remus acknowledged, "Hence the clashes."

Lawrence nodded his confirmation. "Is that why you're here? To throw in your bid?"

"With what pack?Not a chance," Remus denied, "I'm here as a favour to Diggory, actually. He's concerned the conflict will spill into the wizarding communities."

While Lawrence bitterly grumbled about it being none of the wand wavers' concern, Remus rolled back his shoulders and knocked on one of the tent flaps. As wizarding tents were prone, it felt as though Remus had just knocked on someone's front door.

"Come in," Astrid called.

Remus glanced at Lawrence, offered him a wry smile, and opted not to keep the lady waiting.

"Good luck," Lawrence said, directed to Remus' back, "You'll need it."

And as Remus retreated inside the tent, he wondered what Lawrence had eluded to with such an ominous farewell.


	7. Chapter 7: The Alpha

**Resurrection**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Chapter Seven: The Alpha**

 _July 10th, 1994_

Inside the tent, the woman who greeted him was a far cry from the girl he'd known years earlier. A clawed scar marred her face, forehead to jaw, cut into her eyebrow, down her cheek, to disappear behind a curtain of dark brown hair. Age and life and stress had formed creases at the corners of her eyes and mouth, had dulled the lustre of her skin, had soften the curves of her figure. She was, however, unmistakably Astrid Dolohov, and she was not happy to see him.

"What are you doing here?"

Deep in the back of his mind, Remus' wolf stirred into awareness. Moony so hated it when other alphas challenged him. Simultaneously, Remus tried to puzzle out the cause for her hostility, and he came up with nothing. In 1982, they'd departed on civil terms - neither friends nor enemies - but evidently, that civility had not lasted.

He wondered, idly, if she'd grown fond of Greyback in his absence. He wasn't about to ask, however. It wasn't his business, and it was irrelevant besides. Fenrir Greyback was dead, and it was time Remus stopped letting the older werewolf's ghost dictate his life.

"I'm here as a favour," he answered. His eyes flashed gold. "Amos Diggory has asked me to ensure that the current… _tensions_ don't spill into the wizarding world."

Amos Diggory, despite all appearances, was a close friend. He'd joined the Department for the Control of Magical Creatures to make a difference. It had been almost two decades since then, and Amos wasn't the same idealistic man of his youth, but he continued to try his best, and that was more than Remus could say for most of the man's colleagues. Thus, when Amos had asked, Remus hadn't the heart to say no.

"Of course you are," she scoffed bitterly, stepped around the desk she'd made her own, and glared ferociously. Her eyes were amber. "You can rest assured that we'll keep any _tensions_ in house."

"I'm not particularly concerned, in truth."

He meant it, too. Most werewolves kept to themselves and the Colony, unwilling to subject themselves to a community that openly despised them. Greyback had taken pleasure in 'tainting' wizard blood, but other than him, Remus could count on one hand the number of werewolves who openly interacted with 'wand wavers'. To most of them, the harassment wasn't worth it.

She scoffed bitterly. "Right."

"Right," Remus agreed, "Where can I set up my tent?"

"You're staying." It wasn't a question, and she was entirely unimpressed.

"As long as the alpha business remains unresolved," Remus confirmed, smiled wryly, and added, "I'd be crucified if I didn't."

She frowned, puzzled, and informed him flatly, "You're weird."

"I've heard that before."

Astrid shook her head, swept a hand through her hair, and sighed resignedly. "Set up at the edge of camp, Lupin. Out the way you came. _Those_ packs are relatively peaceful."

Remus nodded his acknowledgement and backed towards the door. He knew where he wasn't wanted.

"I can't guarantee your safety," she added, "You're putting your life in your own hands here."

Remus' smile was bleak. "What's new?"

"What kind of life is that?"

"The only life I've got."

Remus exited the tend, sighed wearily, and retraced his steps. There were more people up, more curious about the newcomer among the Colony, and it wouldn't be long before he was confronted by one angry werewolf or another. With that in mind, he didn't waste time in constructing his temporary abode, and a series of temporary, basic wards as well. Afterwards, he settled in front of it, and occupied himself with a set of his robes that needed mending.

He would have to hunt and forage later. He'd learned all the tricks in 1982, had maintained those skills since, had learned to survive with nothing but his wits. It would be an irritant to share hunting territory with a number of other alphas, but Remus would manage. He was adaptable.

Moreover, he didn't have much of a choice. If he did anything else, he would be perceived as weak, and the others would prey upon that. On top of the expected hostilities, it was a complication he didn't need, and therefore, Remus would offer them no reason to question his abilities as an alpha, apparent lone wolf or no.

All of that said, Remus was just hopeful that the present conflict would be resolved quickly. He was eager to return to his life beyond the Colony, and he would sooner avoid any more confrontations than was strictly necessary. He could try, anyway.

-!- -#-

In the 29 years he'd been a werewolf, Remus had learned that there were two different types of lycanthropes.

The first: those who embraced the beast. In all aspects - physical, spiritual, psychological - they became more animal than man, until the human was unequivocally, utterly, consumed by the monster. They became a wild thing, driven only by instinct, and it was a madness unlike any other.

.

The second: those who _contained_ the animal. There was no true _taming_ of the beast, but it allowed the man to retain his rational thought, to not be perpetually driven by the werewolf's curse. The drawback was in the full moons, where the forced transformation was significantly more torturous for the wolf's month-long confinement.

Remus had determined, a long time ago, that the agonising full moons were a worthwhile cost. He'd promised himself to never become the monster who'd made him, and he thought he'd become a better man - a better wizard - for the effort.

Over the years, there were others, such as Greyback, who had disagreed with him, and continued to do so.

One such individual was Grant Whitcomb.

-!- -#-

Remus' first hostile encounter arrived as he approached the tree-line. He had every intention of scouting the area, to find a few creeks and the like, perhaps hunt a few small game animals. Before he could reach the shadow of the canopy, however, his path was disturbed by another werewolf he recognised.

It was Grant. He was a temperamental, aggressive lycanthrope with a tendency to smack around his younger - and weaker - pack members. He was probably as disliked as Remus himself, and that was no small accomplishment. Of course, it was for very different reasons, and yet the fact remained.

Grant was, also, the main instigator behind Astrid's current leadership problems. Most people despised him, but they were also afraid of the bigger, stronger, and older alpha. Thus, a lot of the smaller packs supported him out of fear for themselves, their packs, and particularly, their younglings.

The former Gryffindor disliked - if not despised - him on principle.

Remus bared his teeth in a silent snarl. Moony growled in the far reaches of his mind, rattled the bars of the cage Remus kept him contained therein, and howled to be released. As he did, Remus' vision shifted, turned to black and white and shades of grey, and his irises flared gold.

Grant snarled in turn. "I didn't think you'd have the stones to show your face here, Lupin."

"I'm surprised you spared a thought for me at all, Whitcomb."

"Of course I did," Grant replied, "I've been hoping to be the one to take you out for years."

"You flatter me."

Whitcomb, impetuous as he had always been, lunged for Remus with clawed fingers and an enraged yell. His nails had thickened into long, curved claws in the 12 years Remus had seen him last, and his momentum was particularly easy to sidestep.

Embrace the beast, Grant certainly had, but it didn't make him any stronger or quicker than Remus, who'd honed his reflexes a long time ago.

As the other alpha struggled to stop his momentum, Remus whirled on his heel, kicked out with his right leg, and sent Grant's feet from beneath him. He lunged before the other were could collect himself, dropped his weight on Grant's back, and took hold of the older lycanthrope's neck in both of his hands.

As Grant stilled beneath him, Remus absently noted that his heartbeat was as rapid as his own.

"Think carefully right now, Whitcomb," Remus advised. He couldn't quite smother the low growl that infused his tone. His adrenaline was too high, and Moony was out for blood. "I'm sure everyone is incredibly aware that I am _very_ prepared to kill you."

Grant wordlessly snarled and writhed beneath him, and without hesitation, Remus snapped his neck.

Moony howled in bloodthirsty triumph, Grant's body fell limp, and Remus walked away without a word. The audience - attracted by the noise - watched on in silence, and everything had changed.

Remus simply hadn't realised it yet.

 **Author's Note:** Does this warrant an M rating?

Apologies for the long wait. I was stuck at the beginning and at the middle of this chapter for the longest time. Twice. Also, I pretty much wrote nothing in the month of May. Long story.

Anyway, thanks for all of your support. The 946 story alerts in 6 chapters particularly blows my mind. Hope you enjoyed the chapter.

Until next time, guys and gals. -t.

ps. I've started another rewrite of 'Resolution. I'm up to Chapter 2, but I won't post (repost?) until I've finished the whole story. So, next year?

pps. Let's be real. Probably like never.


	8. Chapter 8: The Unintended Consequences

**Resurrection**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Chapter Eight: The Unintended Consequences**

 _July 10th - 11th, 1994_

It wasn't until he was seated in front of his campfire that evening, boiling up a small rabbit stew, that Remus began to consider the ramifications of his hasty actions. Grant was dead - and good riddance, truly - but that was unfortunately not the end of things.

Whitcomb had been the primary contender to Astrid's authority. In taking him out, Remus had unintentionally inherited that role. The fact was no more obvious as when the alpha female in question approached him with murder in her eyes.

He stood quickly, unwilling to be at a disadvantage when she reached him.

"You," she jabbed a finger against his chest, snarled wordlessly, speechless in her fury.

"What did you want me to do?" Remus challenged, "I was never going to submit to him."

"Then submit to me," Astrid challenged, "Right now."

Remus' eyes widened in mingled surprise and outrage. To be simply _told_ to submit was never done. It wasn't a taboo, per se, but it was generally understood that authority had to be earned, not given.

That unspoken rule particularly applied between alphas.

As such, it was no wonder why Moony was vehemently opposed to that suggestion, absurd as it was.

"You know I can't do that." The 'you have to work for it' was implied. He'd not wanted to get involved. He had intended to be a passive observer, intent to intervene only if the conflict was at risk of bleeding into the wizarding communities. Instead, Grant Whitcomb had been his usual, hot-tempered self, and Remus had responded like an impetuous, arrogant pup.

As things stood, Remus and Astrid - or their respective wolves, rather - were the strongest two alphas in contention for the Colony's leadership role. Neither intended to submit without a fight. The problem lay in the fact that Remus was opposed to violence against women, and the concept of the Colony's leadership besides. Meanwhile, Astrid was opposed to the concept of a fight against the same werwolf who'd not only fought Fenrir Greyback to a standstill, but had just killed Grant Whitcomb without breaking a sweat.

Astrid threw her arms in the air, yelled wordlessly, and stalked towards her tent. Remus watched her go, shook himself, and dropped back down to tend to his stew. In retrospect, he wished he'd just said no to Amos.

Perhaps then he'd not be in the midst of this mess. Instead, he would be aiding in Harry's summertime education, and that idea was exceedingly more appealing than Colony politics.

-!- -#-

Lawrence approached Remus later that night, and the latter idly wondered when Woodridge slept. Remus himself was tired. It had been a long few weeks, and the days ahead promised to be even longer, but his thoughts were all over the place. That said, rest was a distant dream.

Moreover, he was uncomfortably aware of the hostility directed towards him. Although some werewolves had softened towards him in the hours since, tensions hadn't completely abated with Grant's death. As such, the omnipresent scrutiny remained. It lingered at the fringes of his awareness, tickled at the fine hairs at the nape of his neck, made Moony prowl restlessly within the confines of his cage.

In a rare display of agreement, Remus and Moony were unwilling to let their guard down while surrounded by potential threats. Perhaps if there were allies they could trust to have their back he could properly rest, but Such individuals were far and few between.

Remus would admit, if only to himself, that he was the only one to blame. He had never tried to befriend anyone within the colony, had never embraced the prospect of a werewolf pack. A dozen years earlier, he'd resented his lycanthropy too much to try, Fenrir Greyback more so. As such, it had never seemed worth the effort. To start now would be too little, too late, and therefore, the concept didn't even bear consideration.

Thus, with his senses on high alert and his guard up, Remus heard Lawrence's approach far before he actually saw the man.

"You, Lupin, have to be the dumbest intellectual I've ever met," Lawrence declared, dropped down beside him, and stirred at the embers of Remus' waning campfire. "Nice work with Whitcomb though."

"Grant has always had a tendency to underestimate his opponents," Remus acknowledged.

"And you've never had a tendency to act so rashly. What changed?"

Remus didn't have an answer. He'd never been the impulsive sort. As a child, his nightmarish encounter with Fenrir Greyback had taught him caution, further instilled by the need to rein-in Sirius and James during their later years at Hogwarts. It had only been exacerbated by the years since, constantly rejected for a curse he'd acquired through no fault of his own.

Then again, he supposed, he'd acted more on instinct than impulse, and Remus was self-aware enough to admit that. Perhaps it was a consequence of his encounter with Greyback in Hogwarts' Forbidden Forest, perhaps it was simply because he was an older alpha, more settled with that understanding than Grant Whitcomb had ever been. Perhaps it was something else entirely.

"He threatened my authority," Remus shrugged, "I couldn't treat that lightly."

"No," Lawrence agreed, "But it's certainly made a mess of things."

Remus nodded, chagrined. "I didn't want to get involved."

"Well, you are now. What will you do about it?"

"What options do I have?"

"The way I see it, you could fight her until one of you submits, or you can lead the colony together."

It took Remus a moment to register what the older man had said and implied. When he did, he reeled. Such a prospect hadn't crossed his mind, and he was dumbfounded by Woodridge's audacity to even suggest it.

"Have you lost your mind?"

Lawrence shrugged, nonchalant. "She's unmated, you're unmated, you're both alphas, everyone's a winner."

Remus shook his head, momentarily unable to comprehend the idea. "You're insane."

Lawrence shrugged, lifted himself to his feet, and made to leave. "Think on it, at least. As things are, it's the only way that won't result in any more bloodshed. Don't you think there's been enough already?"

Unable to argue with that, Remus found himself considering the idea. He wasn't thrilled by the prospect, but he couldn't deny the logic behind it. Neither of them were inclined to fight each other, and at the end of the day, they both desired a peaceful resolution to the mess Remus had unintentionally created.

He didn't have to like it, of course. In fact, the thought left a bitter taste in his mouth, but unless another solution presented itself, what else could he do?

"Besides, Fenrir always wanted you to succeed him."

Remus didn't tell Lawrence that that prospect made him want to walk away from the Colony, to never look back. He wanted nothing to do with Fenrir Greyback and the monster's wishes. He never had, and even in Greyback's death, he never would.

"And if neither of those appeal to you, there's always the option to leave."

If he did, Remus knew he would never be able to return. Not as long as Astrid lived, in any case. He would probably never want to on his own terms, but he couldn't discount the possibility that he would one day _need_ to.

Lawrence hesitated before he walked away. "Before you make a decision, take some time to think about it. You could offer a lot to the colony."

And then he left, and Remus was alone again.

 **Author's Note:** Apologies for the ridiculous delay, and for the (comparatively) short chapter. Wrote myself into a corner. That's what I get for knowing the destination, but only having a semi-detailed idea of the journey. Other than that, life and writer's block. You know the drill. Thanks for all of your support. Until next time, -t.


	9. Chapter 9: The Indecision

**Resurrection**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Chapter Nine: The Indecision**

 _July 11th, 1994_

By morning, nothing had changed. Remus had been plagued by a restless night of sleep, his mind a mess of thoughts and possibilities, and he was tired. Even as a part of him wished it was all a bad dream, he could admit to himself that his life hadn't been so interesting since the war, wherein he'd been entrenched in the rogue packs, hunting foreign, unwitting vampires on their territory, spying on Greyback, subtly, secretly turning his fellow werewolves against Voldemort's campaign. He'd spent most of those long months watching his back, perpetually on his toes and changing his plans on the fly, and perhaps there was something wrong with him, but it had been _fun_ in ways he'd rarely experienced since.

Remus rarely indicated it, but it was more than just a shared dormitory, a shared intellect, and a mutual appreciation for mischief that had Sirius, James, and Remus gravitate to each other. They'd helped, yes, but the three of them had never been destined for the quiet life. They enjoyed the rush of adrenaline too much, enjoyed life on (or over) the edge of safety and societal conventions, and in the war, they'd thrived.

Until, of course, everything changed. Harry's arrival had impacted them all, had made them more cautious, considerate of their actions and the potential repercussions thus, but none more so than James. It wasn't a development any of them regretted. In fact, Harry's birth gave them a reason to ensure they made it out of their next skirmish, raid, mission alive, if not exactly whole. They'd been entrenched in the war for years by that point, and when hope had begun to wane, Harry - otherwise known as Fawn, Pup, or Cub, depending on whom you asked - offered them a reason to not give up the fight for a better, brighter world.

But then, those days were long gone. James and Lily were dead, Sirius was a darker, stoic effigy of the lively, gregarious young man Remus remembered from 1981, and Peter?

Well, Wormtail was another matter entirely.

Remus shook himself out of his reverie before he could work himself into a rage, proceeded through his morning ablutions, and left his tent as the sun rose over the eastern horizon. The Colony was stirring around him, but as he approached Astrid's tent, he paid them no heed.

Before he seriously considered the possibility of binding himself to Astrid, he needed to know if it was a compromise the female alpha was willing to accept. It would be a moot point, otherwise, because he certainly wasn't about to force a mating bond - and all it's connotations - on someone who didn't want one.

Gods, Remus wasn't even sure why it was an issue. Most of the werewolves in the Colony either despised him, or were at best ambivalent to his very existence, and he was sure there would be a mutiny as soon as he was recognised as alpha. There was a small minority, like Lawrence, who respected the fact Fenrir had wanted Remus to succeed him, but those people were few and far between, and Remus was content to pretend he didn't know they existed at all.

Why had Greyback, depraved, disturbed, deceased, believed Remus would be an appropriate successor to his blood-drenched legacy, and for Merlin's sake, why hadn't Remus just left already? He owed Fenrir Greyback nothing, and yet, he was still there, more involved with every moment that passed him by..

Still pondering both questions, Remus knocked on the (charmed) entrance to Astrid's tent, and waited for the woman to let him in. It didn't take her long, and when he entered, he was unsurprised to find she appeared as rested as Remus felt.

That was to say, she didn't look rested at all.

"What do you want?" Astrid demanded. She was hostile, her entire posture tense, and inside his cage, Moony bristled.

Remus raised his hands in supplication. "Just to talk, all right?"

"What could you possibly have to say?"

"Quite a lot, actually. Will you listen?"

Astrid exhaled shortly, her nostrils flaring, but she offered him a terse nod and gestured wordlessly for Remus to take a seat. She didn't offer him any of the social niceties, though he hadn't expected anything else. Instead, the younger woman crossed her arms over her chest, impatient and expectant.

It didn't bode well for their impending conversation, and briefly, Remus wondered if he ought to cut his losses before he wasted both of their time. He steeled himself quickly, however, disinclined to run away from a problem he was mostly at fault for, particularly when it was nowhere near close to any semblance of resolution. In fact, it was probably the only reason he hadn't already run for the hills.

"I spoke with Lawrence last night," Remus began, "He offered up a suggestion that could resolve our err… leadership issue."

Astrid's only acknowledgement was a quirk of an eyebrow. Remus wasn't sure of her relationship with Lawrence, if they were on good terms or not, but she seemed open to suggestions, and Remus just hoped she wouldn't fly off the handle when she actually heard what he had to say. He hadn't known her particularly well in the early 80's, and that had certainly not changed in the decade since. As such, he didn't know her well enough to predict her response, but given her personal history, Remus struggled to imagine she'd be particularly inclined towards a bond with a wizard, fellow werewolf or no.

With that in mind, however, perhaps obligation, or ambition - or whatever it was that pushed her to take on the COlony's leadership - would ensure she at least considered the possibility. Despite his own misgivings, his hesitation and indecision, it was all he could ask of her.

Merlin, he wasn't even sure what he wanted, from her, or from himself, and still he fretted.

"He suggested we bond."

Short and succinct, and straight to the point. He doubted she had the patience for his usual nervous ramble, and self-preservation had him itching to leave the Colony and never look back. No doubt, it was only shear bullheadedness that kept him in his seat, but as Astrid continued to stare blankly at him, the tent exit appeared exceedingly more tempting.

Astrid cleared her throat. Her gaze, a steely, blue-flecked grey, was inscrutable, her expression more so, and this woman was a terrifying quandary. "I'll think about it."

-!- -#-

That afternoon, Lawrence sought Remus out upon the latter's return from the woods, burdened by a hare for himself, and some others for the remnants of Grant's pack. He'd learned, earlier, that they'd been left floundering in the wake of Whitcomb's death, and although they hadn't given any indication that they had accepted - or would even welcome - him as their alpha, Remus almost felt obligated to help them.

It was perhaps irrational, and maybe even dangerous, but Remus had never been able to turn away from what he considered his duty.

"Woodridge," Remus greeted, "I feel as though this is becoming a regular occurrence. What can I do for you?"

"What are you doing?"

"Whitcomb's pack has small children, doesn't it? I doubt anyone will be making any effort to feed them while they quarrel over who decides who is in charge."

Remus couldn't decide whether or not it was absurdly hysterical that Whitcomb's death created the exact same issue as Fenrir's, if only on a smaller scale. Moreover, he was uncertain of whether or not he wanted to laugh or cry over the fact he was involved in both problems, and he privately blamed Sirius.

Certainly, Remus' life hadn't been so dramatic before Padfoot's escape from Azkaban. Not since 1981, at any rate.

"You actually care?" Lawrence sounded genuinely baffled.

Remus scowled. "I'm not going to let children starve. Give me some credit."

On the edge of what had been Grant's 'territory' (a few tents clustered around a small campfire), Remus levitated the conjured hunting pack to the unlit brazier, and then made his way back to his own lodgings. He had no desire to make a scene, and they would never have to know it was he who had provided for them.

Lawrence, predictably, followed.

"How did your talk with Astrid go?"

"It went." Remus was noncommittal, mostly because he didn't have much to say. Astrid hadn't yet gotten back to him, and although he was somewhat anxious, he wasn't about to rush her choice, more so given the fact he hadn't decided what he wanted, himself.

He'd thought about it, certainly, had turned it over and over until he was sick with it, and his circulating thoughts had gotten him nowhere but stressed. "She said she'd think about it."

"That sounds… promising."

Remus was privately skeptical, but he didn't disagree. Instead, he flopped gracelessly onto the couch in his borrowed tent, and waited eagerly for his day to be over. It wasn't yet evening, and he was exhausted.

 **Author's Note:** What, an update?

Honestly, I'm truly sorry. I blame the inconsistencies and potholes throughout the series. THey're a blight on the muse, I guess. I am trying.

Also avoiding university enrolment for the sake of my anxiety levels, but I doubt you want to hear about that. As such, I'll sign off here. Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed, and I also hope Remus doesn't come off as too complainy in this one. Until next time, however long that takes. -t.


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